


Slaying the Dreamer

by lesnuffles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesnuffles/pseuds/lesnuffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me where ‘e is!”</p><p>“I... I really don't...”</p><p>Sebastian sat in front of him and crossed his legs, running his fingers over<br/>the weapon as the grin spread across his face. He rubbed his chin with a<br/>hand, feeling the roughness of scars and three days’ worth of stubble.</p><p>“We’ll see ‘bout that, Mr. Trevor” he said finally. “I got all the time in the world.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slaying the Dreamer

###  _Day One_

* * *

A single drop of blood slowly ran down his gaunt cheek, thick with  
dirt, and slipped over the scars and bruises on his skin until it hit  
the bare floor. He opened his mouth in a struggle for air, panting  
for breath as he lowered his head in exhaustion.

“Tell me where ‘e is!”

An enraged roar, and the thud of a punch against his cheek echoed  
throughout the empty warehouse. He coughed, leaving a spatter of  
blood on the ground. He opened his mouth, lips trembling and  
swollen, to speak in a hoarse voice.

“I don't know.”

Another punch. A tall, muscular man walked out from behind the  
shadows and knelt in front of the prisoner, showing him the tip of a  
sharp knife, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth

“Liar.”

He gently touched the prisoner’s bare chest with the knife, letting it  
caress his skin. It left behind a distorted, thin red line only for a  
moment before blood started flowing out. The prisoner was  
breathing more quickly, his entire body trembling as much as the  
rough rope and metal pole allowed it to.

The faint sound of his voice broke the silence.

“I... I really don't...”

Sebastian sat in front of him and crossed his legs, running his  
fingers over the weapon as the grin spread across his face. He  
rubbed his chin with a hand, feeling the roughness of scars and  
three days’ worth of stubble.

“We’ll see ‘bout that,” he said finally. “I got all the time in the world.”

###  _Day Four_

* * *

The prisoner was passed out. Sebastian stared at him in silence.  
His lips tightened, and he clenched the knife in his hands as if it  
were the only thing keeping gravity in the room, keeping him  
anchored to the ground.

The stench of sweat and blood stifled the air and made it almost  
impossible to breathe. The prisoner’s wrists were scratched and  
raw from all the attempts at escaping his bonds. His chest was  
covered with scars and bruises, and he was so thin Sebastian could  
count his ribs one by one.

His face was hidden behind his blond curls—although it didn’t  
look blond, with the dirt and blood. His forehead was covered in  
sweat, and his eyes, even when closed, were dark-rimmed. And  
were those tears clinging to his eyelashes? Sebastian didn’t bother

to find out; the answer was obvious, anyway.  
  
 _Weak._

He lazily wondered how much longer Victor Trevor was going to  
last.

###  _Day Five_

* * *

“He's gone.”

“Liar!”

Sebastian threw his knife across the room. It bounced off the floor  
with a metallic, clanging sound as he grabbed the prisoner by the  
throat, his fingers gripping the tense skin of his neck. Trevor’s eyes  
opened wide, his lips moving in vain, desperate for air as  
Sebastian’s grip closed further and further.

“He's alive! You're ‘idin’ ‘im!”

“I—I—”

Sebastian let him go, taking a step back. Trevor took a long, loud  
breath before starting to cough, spitting blood on the ground. When  
he had regained his breath, he looked directly at his jailer, his light  
eyes speckled with red.

“He's dead. They both are.”

“Shut up!”

He punched Trevor harder this time, but his fist shook as he  
withdrew his hand, massaging his aching knuckles. He panted as  
he spoke, his voice shaking in rage.

“Holmes is alive. I know ‘e is, and if ‘e is... if _he’s_ alive, then...”

“He's dead.”

Sebastian grabbed Trevor by his hair, pulling his head up, his  
fingers wrapping around blood-soaked curls. When he spoke, their  
faces were only inches apart.

“He's alive! Watson knew nothin’, but you... you ‘id ‘im, I know  
you did!”

Trevor’s breath was light. He lowered his eyes and frowned—  
sorrow?—and his voice was a whisper when he spoke.

“I wish I had.”

“You're lyin’!”

Sebastian hit him again, but this time with less force. He didn’t  
think he could control his legs anymore; his limbs were shaking  
too badly.

“Sherlock is dead.” Trevor’s voice cracked, but he looked directly  
into Sebastian’s eyes, not a trace of rage to be found. He looked  
exhausted, tired, defeated.

Just like him.

“You're lyin’! ‘E's alive, and if Holmes is alive, then ‘e is... Jim  
is...”

Trevor stared at him, almost imperceptibly shaking his head.

“They both died on that roof.”

“You're lyin’!”

Sebastian walked away, but instead of gearing up for another blow,  
it was to avoid facing the frightening possibility that Trevor was  
right.

###  _Day Seven_

* * *

“He ‘ad a plan. Jim ‘ad a plan. ‘E ain’t stupid. Neither of ‘em is.”

Victor looked up, but said nothing. Sebastian wasn’t look at him  
anymore; he only sat there, legs crossed, looking past the empty  
walls. His right hand still held the knife, but it was rested on his  
lap.

“They didn’ go there to die. Their final problem; they ‘ad to solve  
it, Jim said. Jim an’ ‘is bloody stupid brain tricks…”

Sebastian unconsciously fiddled with the blade, his fingers already  
stained with Victor’s blood. He scratched the surface of the knife  
with a fingernail. Victor was breathing as silently as possible,  
hanging on to every word.

“They both wanted to live. Some of our men sworn they seen  
Holmes. An’ if ‘e lived, Jim musta lived, too. He just can’t come  
back yet. Somethin’ musta gone wrong, and Holmes is the only one  
who knows what it was. ‘E’s the only one who knows what  
‘appened.”

“Why are you telling me?” Victor asked softly, his voice hoarse  
and his throat aching. Water, he needed water, more than the few  
drops that he’d been given to just barely keep him alive.

Sebastian leaped to his feet and moved toward him, the knife still  
in his hands.

“Holmes was seen ‘round your house. ‘E met you, didn’ he? An’ ‘e  
told you somethin’—what did ‘e tell you? ‘Ow he survived? Where  
Jim ended up?”

For the first time in days, a sparkle of life twinkled in Victor’s  
eyes. “Did he?”

The knife was pressed to his throat, and Sebastian gritted his teeth.

“Don' lie; you knew it! You met ‘im!”

Victor looked directly into his eyes before speaking. There was a  
new resoluteness and bravery in his gaze.

“I thought he was dead.”

“Say that again!” Sebastian roared in anger. It couldn’t be. It didn’t  
make sense, not at all. All the leads he’d been following from the  
beginning all relied on that, on Trevor knowing, on him plotting  
with Holmes…

“I thought Sherlock was dead.”

The punch hit Victor before Sebastian realized what he was doing.

He was angry, frustrated; it couldn’t be—Trevor was lying, of  
course, but why? Protecting Holmes? Keeping some secret? He  
grabbed Victor’s face with shaking fingers

“You’re gonna ‘elp me find ‘im, whether you like it or no.”

Victor took a moment to catch his breath before speaking, his  
voice low. “What if you discover that he—Jim—is dead?”

Sebastian was no longer shaking. His fingers caressed the tip of his  
blood-encrusted knife and gave him a wide, psychotic grin.

“Then, Mr. Trevor, I’m gonna find and kill Sherlock Holmes.”

###  _Day Eleven_

* * *

“You're back.”

Victor’s voice was low and oddly calm. The stranger that had  
kidnapped him on his way to work had been coming and going for  
the past couple of days, checking only to insure that he was still  
alive. He eventually gave him something to eat and drink before  
leaving again.

The wounds on his body were slowly healing, and the stranger—  
whose name, he learned, was Sebastian—hadn’t touched him in  
days. Victor would say he had completely lost interest in him, if it  
weren’t for the fact that Sebastian talked to him (or was it to  
himself?) every time he came to visit.

The fear of dying gradually left him. Maybe, Victor thought, the  
human body couldn’t hold on to fear for such an extended period  
of time. Maybe it just got used to it, making do with it. Working  
out how to survive the best it could.

Sebastian poured a small amount of water into a dirty glass next to  
Trevor, who greedily stared at it, waiting for his help to drink. The  
procedure ended, as always, with Sebastian tossing the glass away  
and sitting on the floor.

He leaned his head against the wall, knees curled up to his chest,  
eyes closed. Somehow, Sebastian looked even more exhausted  
than his prisoner—his face was pale and sweaty, and he was  
getting thinner, too. His lips trembled as he breathed.

“I can’t help you,” Victor said softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

Sebastian said nothing, his eyes still closed. His fingers moved  
back and forth on the blade of his knife, as though he were stroking  
something much softer.

“I can't. Why are you still keeping me here, anyway?”

Maybe it was just better than being left alone, he thought, but  
Sebastian still said nothing. Which was quite strange; in the past  
few days, Victor had gotten to know his captor, and that day,  
something was different. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Is it over? Is he dead?”

Sebastian opened his eyes with a groan. They were wet with tears,  
the first time Victor had seen anything like it. His fingers stopped  
running up the knife, and his voice was shaky.

“You’ll ‘elp me find ‘im,” he said. He turned toward Victor with a  
strange new tenacity in his eyes. “Willin’ or not.”

A single tear fell down his face.

###  _Day Thirteen_

* * *

A narrow window in the ceiling filtered the moonlight into the  
warehouse. Below, there was nothing but a cold silence that had  
enclosed the bare room, formerly acting as a theatre.

The dead body of Victor Trevor was chained against the wall. His  
blue eyes were still open, and across his throat was a deep cut that  
still bled.

The knife was on the ground. There were words written on the wall  
in the same bright red as the gash on the victim’s body. Directly  
underneath was a man wrapped in the corner, shaking and sobbing,  
blood-soaked hands clutching his knees to his chest.

_Get Jim._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to **redherring** for beting this.~


End file.
